


Word by Word

by jusrecht



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: F/M, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 23:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8943142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jusrecht/pseuds/jusrecht
Summary: Lord Melbourne and Victoria continue to correspond via letters after he leaves. Victoria turns to him for support while she is pregnant and scared and fighting with Albert.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [besanii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/besanii/gifts).



It was something she overheard.

 

That was, it was something she overheard and then pretended that she did not, because the crown sat heavily on her head, always, a reminder that clawed into her skull, her neck, her soul. She sat frozen behind her massive desk, pen in hand, eyes fixed on a word which had lost all meanings. Letters and documents claimed the breadth and length of polished mahogany, demanding her attention, but her attention was elsewhere.

 

A sudden pause filled the room. It was a silence conscious of its duplicity, thick with guilt and unease. Her ladies were sitting in a circle, heads bent at needlework, lips curved in secret half-smiles, now tinged with uncertainty.

 

Victoria took a deep breath. Her fingers moved, then her wrist. She inked her name into the municipal report.

 

The stroke of pen on paper was like a conductor’s baton. A sigh of relief travelled to every corner of the room. The low-toned conversation began once more, this time on the subject of seasonal flowers. Much more innocuous and trivial.

 

She paid them no heed. Her mind lingered on the previous topic: of secret relationships, supported on the wings of words. Letters. Indeed, why not? She could write one.

 

But there would be nothing secret about _this_ relationship. There could be no secret for a queen. Chins would wag, and soon the entire palace would know, would _think_ they knew. Her marriage was fraught with troubles. Both were too stubborn, too prideful. The entire warren of the place was humming with it, just a little out of earshot.

 

She pushed the discouraging thought away for a moment and instead, considered the logistics and possibility. Emma was no longer here, but perhaps there was another alternative. A chain of discreet servants. Or one servant, a trusted hand to deliver inconspicuous notes to the Portman residence. The idea refused to fade.

 

The tip of her pen bled into paper, at the end of her name. She sighed, frowning. The ministry would have to draft a new one. She put it aside for now.

 

She took a fresh sheet of paper.

 

 _Mr Rook,_ she began.

 

The words poured. By the end of the missive, her eyes were wet.

 

 

.

 

 

 _Ma’am_ , the answer began.

 

One word, and she almost wept. She could almost see him here, standing before her, the faint curl of his lips ever present. His familiar handwriting was a paltry substitute, yet a comfort nevertheless.

 

It was a short one. A tentative greeting, followed by a formal offer to be of service. One line constituted an entire account of his days. She imagined him sitting in his garden, _contemplating rooks_ as he often called it, penning this missive in the wild, for to write it at his table would expose the connection to much unnecessary risk.

 

At the end of the message, he offered his congratulations, tinged with gentle concern. He did not mention the occasion and she was grateful for it. She put on a brave face, a brave mask, for the sake of her beloved and her country, but the icy clutch of fear remained around her heart. Every night, she went to bed dreading nightmares of blood and pain and the unyielding grip of death.

 

 _You know what they say about bliss_ , was how she approached the subject. _It /is/ bliss. But even bliss has its patches of dark clouds. There cannot be two hearts so loving, so attached to one another, yet differences are a chasm that separates even the closest hearts._

 

 

.

 

 

 _Not even twins share the confined space of one mind every second of every day,_ his reply said, three days later. _Differences in opinions are only natural._

And then, at the very end: _Choose your battles well. It serves no purpose to fight at every front._

 

She did not say much. She did not _want_ to say much. This was a dangerous line, she realised. Your first love stays with you, through summers, autumns, winters. Through other springs, no matter how beautiful.

 

She was more temperate now. She blushed to think of that young queen who had abandoned propriety and risked her monarchy for a moment’s passion. Her love for Albert was different, oceans so deep, the tempest rolling underneath a calm surface.

 

Albert, dearest Albert, the companion of her heart, the other half of her soul. She loved him so very much, but sometimes she did not know how to talk to him. He was a citadel of unyielding stones and rigid corners. He blinded her, took her breath away with his severity and righteousness, all admirable qualities in a king—except he was not one, and this hurt them both more than they were willing to admit

 

It hurt her to think of him hurting, of him feeling cheated out of a great destiny. It hurt her even more to _feel_ that she was not enough.

 

_But I am the Queen._

 

 

.

 

 

It was the first time she declared herself. Victoria could imagine his frown of disapproval (but perhaps also a hint of affection?) at her carelessness. _Ma’am_ , he would have sighed, had he walked here by her side in the palace garden. A letter could not contain all these nuances. In fact, he did not mention it at all.

 

 _You know your own mind,_ so his words caressed her instead, soothed her uncertainty. _You always do._

 

The letters never mentioned _him_. Her Lord M was the soul of prudence. He cushioned his meaning lightly, in words so innocuous they never failed to leave a smile on her face. She could almost hear him now, from somewhere behind her shoulders, distributing clever, amusing comments as skilfully as ever.

 

The memory was a bittersweet one. After a trying morning in the company of Peel’s rough manners and ungentlemanly stubbornness, to read this penned note was an absolute pleasure. Even now, on her regular morning walk, she had the single sheet tucked in her pocket as she mulled over the content and her reply.

 

_But he does not know mine. He used to, but now it's as if he is deaf to my opinions, so convinced that he is right._

 

 

.

 

 

 _Righteousness is a strange thing,_ the reply said two days later. _It gives one an illusion of invincibility. One expects everybody else to share one's opinion, or worse, to follow one's judgment without question. This is of course a fallacy, but co_ _nversation, I was told, would open many doors._

 

She sighed but could not help a smile. Lord M, she would have told him had he been here, conversations would indeed open doors, with the proviso that they _did_ occur. Victoria had lost count on the number of times she had tried to initiate a discussion, only to find a cold shoulder or a look of pity that made her face burn with shame.

 

_But how could a conversation, the kind you meant, ever take place with one party actively not wishing for it?_

 

 

.

 

 

_We, men, are proud creatures. And pride does come before a fall, but too often our kind are too blinded by pride to see it. Wiser creatures will never meet this stubbornness head on. Every single time, bamboo trees survive a storm while oaks do not._

 

In private, Victoria rolled her eyes. Sometimes she wished that he would speak more plainly, instead of obscuring everything in riddles.

 

 _But this dreary railways business,_ she objected.

 

_I imagine misgivings are many, but the march of progress is endless. We cannot, must not, stand in its way._

_You sound like a certain stuffed frog._

 

_Perhaps even a stuffed frog could learn the ways of the world, politics among them, and in the end becomes a real one._

_And yet a frog nevertheless. I find the species altogether repulsive._

_The species may be, but the ideas inside its mind are not without merits. A frog which looks to the future, I imagine, may be worthy of a second chance._

She wanted to scream, to rail at him for not standing with her on this. Never had she felt more lonely, despite a husband at the other side of her bed and a friend at the end of her pen.

 

_I wish everyone would stop telling me to do things I do not want._

_But what are these things you do not want? The railway? The frog?_

_Changes. I do not want changes._

This time, a maple leaf tumbled out of the folded paper, large and red and beautiful. _But everything changes. Seasons change. Hearts change. People change. Change is the only thing that does not change._

_Oh, don’t. Philosophy is so tiresome._

_Then perhaps you will allow me a hint of pragmatism. One chance. At least listen to what they have to say once, and if your decision remains unchanged, then so be it._

 

.

 

 

Victoria did not reply for weeks. Melbourne’s suggestion might be reasonable, but it vexed her all the same. Her thoughts turned ugly, self-pitying. Nowadays, she hated to look into the mirror, not only because of the changes in her body. To see herself and recognise all the things that the people closest to her heart found lacking was frighteningly bitter.

 

It was the news of her friend’s collapse that shook her out of this gloom, into a mist of frenzied panic.

 

“Worry not, Majesty,” Harriet said in her quiet, soothing voice. She wore a smile, designed to calm and coax, but Victoria did not think that Death could be repelled with a smile. In tears, his notes thrust into her pocket, she wondered if her royal presence could—and she would have gone, would have dragged herself, aching and bulging, for an impromptu visit to Brocket Hall if she had thought it could have made a difference. That night, she sat in front of her window and wrote _I’m sorry please please please don't leave me like this_ until the page tore from the force of her pen and ink dripped into the leather cover of the book on which she tried to form words. She thought of Albert, _Albert,_ alone in their bed, dreaming of his railways.

 

Except he was not. He was standing behind her, a hand on her shoulder, such anguish in his face. She read him then, through the fog in her eyes, and she whispered his name, tried to, but the voice would not come. This time, he read her,because there were languages in silence, in the set of her brow, the curve of her mouth. His face crumbled and then he was enfolding her in his arms, murmuring _Victoria, oh Victoria,_ her tears soaking into his nightshirt. She sobbed and he was kissing her cheek (tears) and her hair (crown), all parts of her, woman and queen and wife.

 

“I'm really sorry,” he told her, because there were languages in silence, but sometimes words were needed to bridge a chasm.

 

She held his hands and quietly, in each other’s arms, under a universe of blinking stars, they talked.

 

 

.

 

 

_I am glad to hear that you are much recovered. You gave me quite a fright._

_Then, Ma'am, I beg for your forgiveness. Please allow me to make amends._

_You already did._

The reply came late, but when it finally did, it carried the scent of orchids, blooming late in winter.

 

_My best wishes, Ma'am, now and for eternity._

 

**_End_ **

 

**Author's Note:**

> Fact is, Melbourne had a stroke about a year into his retirement, and he did not retire until the birth of Victoria’s second child, so indeed, what is timeline.


End file.
